


Salve Regina

by la_faerie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aramis decides to become a priest, while Anne comes up with a plan to put an end to the war between France and Spain. These two things end up being related. </p>
<p>  <i>“We’re putting an end to this war,” Anne declares.</i></p>
<p>  <i>“You mean, you’re going to put an end to the war?” Aramis asks for clarification.</i></p>
<p>  <i>“Well,” Anne allows herself a little smile here. “Technically, yes. I’ve sent a note to my brother and arranged a meeting. In two days time, he will meet with Louis and myself. I want you to be there, too. That’s why I asked for you.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Salve Regina

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the idea for this fic simmering in my mind since the s2 finale. It's not meant to be accurate in regards to what s3 might look like, nor is it historically accurate. It's just an idea I wanted to get out my head and onto paper.
> 
> A huge thank you to Liberty for her kindness in reading this over. Always the Porthos to my Aramis!

Aramis looks out over the expanse of the battlefield. A battle isn’t taking place today though. Or, rather, it’s not a battle fought with weapons. Colorful banners are coming into view in the distance signaling the approach of the Spanish royal entourage, and Treville motions that their party should start advancing as well. Aramis reaches for the crucifix hanging around his neck. It’s a simple design, made of wood, sanded and polished to look nice, but not ornate enough to attract attention. It had originally belonged to Athos. Aramis closes his hand around it briefly before stepping forward.

But that is not where this story begins.

+

It’s difficult to see the origins of an event, to see where something begins and where it might lead, especially when in the thick of things. That is why Aramis prefers prayers to stories. It isn’t difficult to memorize a prayer and, once memorized, the recitation is unchanging, leaving little chance for an unforeseen (and unwelcome) surprise. 

Prayer has a rhythm to it, and the fixed nature of that is comforting. And thus, Aramis sits in his room at the monastery and makes multiple circuits around his wooden rosary beads on a daily basis, lulling himself into a state of calmness, keeping the unpredictability of real life at bay.

+

Aramis is in the middle of his afternoon silent prayer recitation when Brother Thomas summons him, saying that he has visitors. Three familiar figures stand in the vestibule of l’Abbaye de Cluny, and, for one moment, Aramis isn’t sure whether he’s going to run and hug them, or irrationally yell at them to get out. He settles for calling out “Welcome!” and holding out both arms in a gesture of greeting.

“In the mood for an afternoon jaunt out of Paris?” He jokes, as he leads the three of them to one of the back gardens. “Otherwise this is a bit out of your way.”

Porthos cracks a small smile, while Athos and d’Artagnan look grim. Their uniforms, usually kept in impeccable shape, are covered in dust and dirt from the road. It looks as though it’s been a couple of days since any of them have slept. Clearly they’ve ridden hard to get to the Loire Valley from Paris. Aramis is afraid to ask why.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to ask, because news of the war with Spain tumbles out of d’Artagnan’s mouth, as though he can’t keep it pent up any longer. 

“So, you’ll come fight with us, yes?” d’Artagnan asks, looking Aramis in the eye. “We need you out there.”

“You’ll be unbeatable,” Porthos says in a sure tone, as though he’s settled it in his own mind. “No other soldier could cut down a man of God in good conscious.”

“It’s a marching army,” d’Artagnan counters. “They can kill anyone they like, including the King. That’s the problem.”

“Actually,” Aramis cuts in, unable to resist getting involved in their conversation. “The Spanish most likely would hold the king prisoner instead of killing him. That way they can levy taxes on French citizens to pay his ransom, or get other governments involved. More lucrative.”

“Right,” Porthos nods. “Don’t kill a man unless there’s money in it.”

Athos, who had been pacing back and forth during this conversation, now stops to look at the rest of them. “None of this is to the point,” he declares.

Aramis can’t help rolling his eyes. “Capturing the King is very much the point for the Spanish.”

“Yes, but…” Athos huffs, running a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and then looks at Aramis. “What have you been doing here? How do you spend your time?”

Aramis is surprised by the question, and it takes him a moment to answer. “Lots of prayer, of course. Studying some texts.”

“Studying?” d’Artagnan is incredulous. 

“Everyone here has to do some reading or translating,” Aramis explains. “I’m not much for translating. I prefer working outdoors, helping with the gardens and the stables. I think that’s where I’ll be the most helpful.”

Porthos gestures to the main building behind them. “Will this place need defending?” he asks. “You’d be a help in that case.”

“Everywhere in France will need defending,” Athos says.

“Athos is right,” Aramis nods. “And that’s one reason I can’t come with you.” Porthos draws in a sharp breath at this, but doesn’t say anything. D’Artagnan looks downright angry. Athos is giving a kind of static, flat stare, and Aramis knows that means he’s thinking. “I know you three came here with the intention to bring me back, and I understand.”

“Do you?” d’Artagnan interrupts. “We’re at war! You don’t seem to understand that.”

“I didn’t come here for relaxation, it’s not a holiday,” Aramis says gently, trying to make him understand. “And, in fact, I’m doing more than just living here at the monastery. I’ve decided to take holy orders.”

Porthos lets out his breath now in a long low whistle. “So, that’s why you’re staying here?” he asks. “As a priest, you really will have to defend it.”

“Priest!” D’Artagnan shrieks like he can’t believe it’s a word, let alone a title that will belong to Aramis.

Athos actually lets out a little laugh. “Oh my—” but he cuts himself off before saying God. “I knew you were serious about your life here, that’s why I asked. I guess now have an idea of just how serious.” 

The three of them stare at Aramis, eyes wide, trying to reconcile their old friend Aramis with this new version.

Aramis looks back at them and wonders how it has come down to this: Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan as a unit on one side, with himself standing on another side looking back at them. 

“Yes,” Aramis says, “I’m quite serious about it. Priesthood isn’t just a choice, it’s a personal conviction.” He has to articulate the truth for his three friends and for himself, too. “I feel my devotion very deeply. Becoming a priest is the best way I know to express it.”

There’s a pause during which the four of them are still and silent. Then Porthos steps forward and rests a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis can’t help smiling. It’s funny how saying the truth out loud makes him feel like part of the group again.

“So, you see,” Aramis continues “I can’t come with you right now because I haven’t been ordained yet. And I’ll have to get this place into some kind of fighting shape. I’ll have to round up some weapons and teach at least one person here to shoot.”

“Ah,” Porthos looks sly. “Your true calling.” Aramis raises an eyebrow. “You’re not a priest yet, I can make jokes,” Porthos insists, and Aramis laughs.

D’Artagnan is looking at Aramis, his eyes narrowed in thought. “So, you’ll come join the regiment eventually? That’s what you’re saying?”

Aramis nods. “I didn’t say I’d never come fight with you. I only said that I can’t come away with you right now.”

Athos gives a crisp nod. “You’ll write to us? When you’re ready?”

“Of course.”

D’Artagnan looks so relieved he might fall over and, indeed, Porthos takes him by the elbow to steady him.

Aramis invites the group to stay for a meal, pointing out that their horses need some time to rest. And so, the Musketeers break bread together at l’Abbaye de Cluny, and then three of them return to Paris.

+

Perhaps everything began with the other crucifix. Aramis doesn’t have it in his possession anymore, but he often thinks of it. It was a heavy necklace, with intricate detail work, made not just for prayer, but to be eye-catching as well.

The real trouble began when Anne handed the crucifix to him, her gaze lingering on him, and Aramis had an inkling that it was more than just a simple token passed from a queen to her subject. At least, he hoped so, because his gaze had lingered, too.

Now that Aramis knows the real origin of that crucifix—that it had initially belonged to Rochefort—it feels like a kind of poison. Anne should not be burdened with it. And if he wore it himself now, it would feel like a curse. Instead of being an agent of calm reflection and prayer, it would only conjure up Rochefort’s cold stare, the unsettling way he never flinched, not even when dying. 

There is another aspect, one that Aramis does not like to admit. Marguerite had also held that crucifix in her hand, and now she is dead. And though it is not a direct correlation, it still makes the crucifix feel poisoned. Aramis knows that’s his guilty conscious talking. He looks around at the bare walls of his plain little room at l’Abbaye de Cluny and thinks that he’s certainly come to the right place for dealing with guilt.

Of course Aramis had known that he should never have started anything with Marguerite to begin with. But then he would hear the dauphin crying or laughing, and he knew he had to be near his son. And that was the problem: the baby is to be known as the dauphin. To even think of the dauphin as being another man’s son is treasonous, and yet it is the truth. How can the truth be treason?

So the guilt weighed on Aramis’ mind, and gradually seeped into his heart as well. A guilty mind is one thing, but a guilty heart weighs even more heavily. The heart may have the capacity for unconditional love, but also for great selfishness.

It was bad enough that Aramis had slept with Marguerite even once, but he continued his involvement with her. He continued even after noticing the gentle way she would brush his hair back from his face, looking into his eyes with a serene smile on her face. He noticed that she became slow to disentangle herself from him, even if the dauphin started crying. He noticed all of these little telltale signs of her falling in love with him but he didn’t put a stop to any of it, all because he selfishly wanted to be in the private quarters of the palace as often as possible.

He stayed with Marguerite because of the baby, and because of Anne, too. From time to time, Marguerite would mention the Queen in passing, or remember something the Queen had asked her to do. 

_”The draught is picking up, remind me, I’ll have to bring more of the Queen’s ermine cloaks out of storage.”_

_“The Queen said she wants the Luxembourg pearls for dinner tonight, don’t let me forget to pick them out before I leave.”_

Aramis wanted to assure Marguerite there was no possibility of him forgetting even the smallest detail about the Queen, but, of course, that was the one thing he couldn’t talk about with her.

Now, Aramis dedicates at least one Chaplet of the rosary to Marguerite, thinking of her particularly while reciting the required number of Hail Marys.

He makes sure to keep three votives burning: one for Isabelle (or Sister Hélène), one for Marguerite, and one for his son. Aramis refers to the dauphin as his son in his own private communion with God. It might be treason, and it might be a sin. God deals with guilt and with sin, but surely He prefers to work with the truth.

Aramis saves the _Salve Regina_ prayer for Anne.

+

Three months later, Aramis arrives at the French army encampment in the south of France. He has a horse he’s ridden from l’Abbaye de Cluny and a small satchel with some clean but simple tunics and vestments, along with a copy of the Bible given to him on the occasion of his ordination. That’s all he has with him, after all, what does one bring to war?

He sees immediately that war is a very busy enterprise, and the encampment is like a little city of its own with rows of tents forming makeshift streets and circuits. At the center of it all sits a large and distinctive marquee tent. There are groups of guards protecting this marquee, and the perimeter of the camp. Aramis wonders if they’re Musketeers.

Some of the men camped here are knights of the realm whose fathers and grandfathers were also knights. They were great tournament champions or earned their spurs during now-famous historical battles. But most are ordinary men who were unlucky enough to be conscripted to fight. Many of them have already died, either in battle or from disease. 

As Aramis makes his way to the center of the camp, he notices that despite the losses, morale seems decent. But then, it’s still summer. If the war rages on, optimism will wane as colder weather sets in and food supplies dwindle.

The large marquee at the center of camp looms closer, and Aramis can see it’s dark blue and surrounded by banners emblazoned with a gold fleur-de-lys. A whole squadron of guards is milling around here, and Aramis can make out a few men wearing the insignia of the Musketeers. He realizes, with a pang of sadness and nostalgia, that he doesn’t recognize any of them.

“There he is!” a voice Aramis very much does recognize rings out. “Tell Athos and Treville!”

“You tell them!” comes the retort. “I want to say hello!”

And then d’Artagnan and Porthos are racing towards him. The three of them almost tumble to the ground in a heap, but Porthos steadies them, and there is much hugging and backslapping to go around.

Porthos and d’Artagnan are both clad in armor, the metal hot and heavy in the sun, a fact Aramis quickly realizes, and stop slapping them on the back. 

“What are you wearing?” d’Artagnan cries, taking in Aramis’ simple black robe and white sash.

“I could ask the same of you,” Aramis laughs. “Have you actually worn armor before?” 

D’Artagnan pouts. “It’s much more broken in than my Musketeers uniform was, so don’t start up again with that.”

“Unfortunately it is a bit battle-worn,” Porthos says, pointing at some markings on d’Artagnan’s armor, an uncharacteristic gravity to his voice.

Aramis stops laughing. “How is everything going? News of the battles travels to the provinces quickly, but you can’t always trust that it’s true. Where’s Treville?”

“The Spanish army must be made up of the meanest bunch of bastards on this earth, I can tell you that,” Porthos says. “But Treville is working on some new battle formations now, so we’ll get them. He’s just going over the plans with the King.”

Aramis nods towards the blue marquee. “So, the King is here?”

“The King is most definitely here,” d’Artagnan says, as the three of them start walking towards the marquee. “And he won’t let anyone forget it. He’s decided that he’s some great military strategist—which he obviously isn’t—so Treville is pretty busy dealing with him.”

Just as they reach the royal marquee, another familiar figure appears.

“I thought I heard that a priest was in our midst,” Athos says, the corners of his mouth almost flicking up in a smile.

“What, couldn’t you feel a holy presence?” Aramis jokes.

“From you?” Porthos laughs. “A holy presence?” He and d’Artagnan both cackle.

Aramis just stares and eventually they run out of breath and stop. 

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan apologizes. “It’s just that we’re not used to it yet.” 

“I do feel a bit bad,” Porthos admits. “Laughing at a priest. Even if it is only you.”

“Only me?” Aramis acts offended. “See if I say a prayer for you. Not likely.” But he’s smiling and Porthos is grinning right back at him.

“Actually,” Athos clears his throat. “That’s why I’m here.” He nods at Aramis. “You’ve been summoned.”

“That sounds ominous. Summoned by whom?” Aramis asks.

Athos opens his mouth to answer, but then seems to think better of it. He merely shakes his head. “Come on,” is all he says.

For one irrational and terrifying moment, Aramis has a vision of Cardinal Richelieu rising from the dead upon hearing that Aramis had joined the priesthood, and blazing into the encampment to smite him. But then, he reasons, even Athos would look a little more unsettled by the prospect of a vengeful, undead Cardinal.

So, Aramis nods to Porthos and d’Artagnan, and then follows Athos around the side of the royal marquee. Athos keeps glancing back at him, an odd expression on his face.

“Are you smiling?” Aramis teases. “Have you missed me that much?”

“Impossible,” Athos says. “My face muscles never learned how to smile.”

“Oh, of course not,” Aramis laughs. “What would le Comte de la Fère ever have to smile about?” He means it in a silly, rhetorical way but, of course, it’s the wrong thing to say.

Athos turns around so quickly that Aramis bumps right into him. Athos doesn’t back off, instead leaning even closer to speak directly into Aramis’ face. 

“I wouldn’t know anything about le Comte de la Fère,” he grits out, his teeth clenched. “Because I am not him. I am Athos. You of all people should know that.”

Aramis breathes and waits a beat, letting Athos cool down. “I do know that. And I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it quite seriously this time.

Athos gives a crisp nod and then walks on. He doesn’t glace back until they stop at a smaller tent made of plain canvas, when he stops and gestures for Aramis to step inside.

+

Athos remains standing guard outside the tent while Aramis steps through the door flap. There is a woman standing at the other side of the tent. She has her back toward Aramis, but he recognizes who it is immediately. He didn’t expect it but, in retrospect, thinks maybe he should have.

“Your Highness. My Lady. Anne.” He stumbles over the various titles and her name, flustered at meeting her unprepared like this.

She turns to face him, and gives a smile as she takes in his appearance and his attire. 

“So, it’s true,” she says by way of greeting. “I was a bit skeptical, but I must admit, it looks as though the priesthood suits you.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

“I meant well,” she says, walking toward him.

“You always do,” Aramis says, his tone turning gentle. 

As Anne steps closer to him, it’s as though she comes into focus, and the whole picture is better than he remembers. She’s dressed casually today, by her standards. She’s wearing simple pearl studs in her ears, nothing around her neck, and a long-sleeved blue dress (though still made of fine silk). Her outfit combined with the unmarked plain tent seems like an attempt at camouflage, and he guesses that her being here is not an accident.

“I’m glad to see you,” he says. “I’m always glad. But I have to ask: why are you here?”

Anne looks at him, inscrutable. “The dauphin is safe in Paris with his new nursemaid, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s good to hear,” Aramis says, noting her use of the official title, _the dauphin_. It’s probably just routine for her by now. “But I was thinking more of your personal safety. This is an army encampment, soon to be a battlefield.”

“Safety,” Anne murmurs the word to herself as if trying to decipher it.

“I know you haven’t experienced much of it these past couple of years,” Aramis acknowledges.

Anne gives a wry smile, and then gazes off as though she can see out a long distance away from the tent. Finally she gives a small sigh and turns back to Aramis.

“I am a daughter of Spain and the Queen of France. My whole life is a battlefield.” She says this very matter-of-factly. “As much as I would like to avoid the war completely, I can’t. It pervades my daily life, divides my family, my allegiances, my thoughts. The war won’t leave me alone, so now I have come to the war.” 

Aramis opens his mouth to speak. He’s beginning to understand. “What’s your plan?” he asks, and he can’t keep the note of playful excitement out of his voice. Even priests can enjoy a good scheme, especially one thought up by the Queen.

“We’re putting an end to this war,” Anne declares.

“You mean, _you’re_ going to put an end to the war?” Aramis asks for clarification.

“Well,” Anne allows herself a little smile here. “Technically, yes. I’ve sent a note to my brother and arranged a meeting. In two days time, he will meet with Louis and myself. I want you to be there, too. That’s why I asked for you.”

Aramis takes a step backward. This isn’t what he expected. “Why do you need me to be there?”

“You’re very useful now that you’re a priest,” Anne teases.

“Oh, thank you!” Aramis cries. “So glad I could be of service.”

“No, in all honesty,” Anne says, her tone turning serious now. “I think it would help if you were there to sort of officiate. Philip is ruthless, but he’s extremely pious. It’s an odd combination. But I think he’ll honor the peace agreement if it’s made official, so to speak, by a priest.”

“Well…” Aramis doesn’t know what to say. Kings are strange creatures.

“And Louis,” Anne half turns away from Aramis again now. He stays quiet and tries to give her enough space so that she can articulate what she needs to about her husband. “His heart isn’t in the war, not really. But he doesn’t know how to end it. He never did learn how to surrender, only how to throw up his hands and stalk away if he was losing too badly.”

Aramis stifles a chuckle. “Louis does seem more like a peacetime king.”

“And then there’s my son,” Anne’s voice wavers here for the first time that afternoon. Aramis hears the unspoken in it, the thing that must never be spoken out loud. In the crack of her voice, he hears _our son_. “I don’t want him growing up during war, thinking that violence is the only way to rule. He can’t think that. He must not live like that.”

“No,” Aramis agrees. He steps closer to Anne now. He can see that her eyes are shining, but it’s not from crying. Or, rather, she’s not crying from sadness, but out of sheer emotion. It’s a kind of privilege to witness her devotion, her energy, her sheer drive to accomplish what she believes is right. Aramis thinks he can only hope to be as devoted to God as she is to her convictions.

He reaches for her right hand, tracing along her palm and around her fingertips. “I will go with you,” he says. “I will help broker the peace agreement with you.” It was never a question; he was always going to do what she asked. 

Anne curls her fingers around his in a feather-light hand-holding gesture. “Thank you, Aramis,” she says.

She drops his hand, smooths down her skirt, and takes several steps towards the other side of the tent. “I’ll have Constance bring you a note with final instructions. And of course Treville, Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan must come along as the King’s Guard.”

“Of course,” Aramis responds, bowing his head to her.

Then she is gone. The Queen disappears through a flap on the other side of the tent, leaving Aramis alone. He holds up his right hand, looking at it as though he’s never seen it before. He can still feel a phantom feather-light touch on his fingertips.

+

Aramis and Athos join Porthos in a cramped, but overall decent tent set aside for anyone guarding the King to get a few moments rest. Indeed, d’Artagnan is curled up in a corner, and Porthos gestures for them to be quiet.

“Let him sleep,” Porthos intones. “God knows when he’ll get the chance again.” Then he looks sheepish. “Should I not mention God anymore?”

“I’m not here to stop anyone from talking about God,” Aramis says amiably. “Or anything they want to talk about, for that matter.”

Porthos shakes his head. “This is going to take some getting used to. You’re still you, but different, too.”

“I promise, it’s just me,” Aramis laughs.

“Oh, by the way, I brought your things here,” Porthos says, holding up Aramis’ satchel. “But if you need your own space now, we understand.”

Athos gives a nod of agreement. “Yes, whatever you need. We can find accommodations for you.”

Aramis sees that they’re being completely serious. “You can’t think like this,” he tries to make them understand. “I made a choice, and I might be a little bit different now. I might pray more than I did before. But I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to be with you.” Here he makes sure to look at both Porthos and Athos. 

The two of them absorb this information for a moment. Then Athos makes a gruff “Hmm” noise and Porthos gives one of his wide grins.

“Since we’re on the subject,” Athos begins. “What should we call you now? You’re referred to as Father, I presume?”

“Indeed,” Aramis nods, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You may address me as Wise and Holy Father.”

“Absolutely not,” Athos shoots this suggestion down, while Porthos laughs.

“Well,” Aramis concedes. “Since you two have known me for quite some time, I could grant special dispensation. Just plain Aramis will do. I still answer to that, you know. Although I suppose for any official duties, I should go by Father Aramis.”

He looks at Athos here, who nods.

“Anne briefed me a little bit before sending me to fetch you,” he says. “But I don’t know everything.”

Aramis and Athos fill Porthos in on Anne’s peace plan, and they all explain it to d’Artagnan when he wakes up.

“Is Constance here?” is the first thing he asks.

Athos shakes his head. “Not yet. I think she stayed behind with the dauphin, but she’ll be here any day now.”

“She hasn’t said anything about this to me,” d’Artagnan pouts.

“It’s her duty,” Aramis explains, gently. “Imagine if someone intercepted one of her letters to you and she was detailing the Queen’s secret plans. People would take it the wrong way if it was widely known that she’s still communicating with her brother while our countries are at war.”

D’Artagnan rubs at his eyes. “I guess you’re right,” he eventually huffs.

“Besides,” Porthos says, “You must have some secrets you keep from her about Louis.”

“Who would want to know secrets about Louis?” d’Artagnan rolls onto his side, laughing. “Can you imagine? He’s so…” He lets the thought hang in the air like it can’t be finished.

“The King is very much himself,” Aramis says. 

He notices Athos giving him a look in response to this, but he can’t decipher it. The memory of their little incident earlier still lingers, and Aramis isn’t sure if Athos has quite forgiven him yet. 

The four of them sit in the tent reminiscing together. Treville stops by later that afternoon and gives Aramis a hearty hug in greeting.

“I’ve just been briefed by our top-secret visitor,” Treville says to all of them. “Come on, we have work to do.”

+

On the eve before the Queen’s proposed peace summit, Aramis sits alone in the tent meant for the King’s security. He’s holding his copy of the Bible, not reading it, but turning it restlessly over in his hands.

Constance has made the journey down from Paris and d’Artagnan has snuck off to spend time with her. Porthos is on Louis-duty tonight. The King apparently requested Porthos specifically, finding his demeanor calming. Aramis doesn’t know where Athos is, but assumes he’s with Treville, going over last minute plans, in case the Spanish use the meeting tomorrow to ambush them.

It turns out that he assumes wrong, as Athos makes his way into the tent at that moment.

Aramis isn’t sure what kind of mood he’s in, and gives him a simple nod in greeting. Athos sees that he has the Bible in hand and starts to back away. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you if you’re reading,” he says.

“You’re not disturbing me. I wasn’t actually reading this,” Aramis confesses.

Athos stares at him for moment before blurting out: “You’re a priest.”

“Yes…” Aramis gives a puzzled kind of smile, and waits to see if he’ll continue.

Athos shakes his head. “I’m not sure I know much about faith. Or devotion, for that matter.” A wrinkle appears between Athos’ eyebrows, and Aramis knows whom he is thinking of.

If this were Porthos or d’Artagnan, Aramis would probably walk over, put an arm around them, and joke until that worried crease disappeared. But it’s Athos, meaning it’s probably better to keep some distance.

“You should give yourself more credit,” Aramis says. “You know more than you think.”

Athos gives a sigh, then crosses his arms in an almost defensive position. “I have to tell you something,” he says. “But you must understand, I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

Aramis stands up now, both amused and intrigued. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“When I was standing guard outside the Queen’s tent, I couldn’t help hearing your conversation with her.”

“So, just to clarify, you _were_ eavesdropping,” Aramis teases.

“Not on purpose!” Athos huffs, hands on his hips now. “It’s a canvas tent, it’s not exactly soundproof.”

“I know. Besides, I thought the Queen had briefed you ahead of time anyway? You already knew her plan. It was perfectly fine for you to listen in.”

“Oh that,” Athos nods. “Yes, she did brief me about the logistics of her plan and told me that she wanted you there. That’s not what I meant.”

Aramis has had some puzzling conversations with Athos before, but this time he’s completely lost. “What then?” he asks.

“It’s just that, it must have been difficult. To see her again, and you’re a priest now. That’s what I meant about devotion. I couldn’t do it, become a priest and then go back to being around everyone I loved like nothing had changed.”

“Athos,” Aramis steps closer now. He doesn’t put his whole arm around Athos’ shoulder, but does place a hand on his arm. “I meant what I said, you know plenty about devotion in your own way. That’s what’s important.”

Athos manages to give a shrug without shrugging Aramis away. 

“And I’m not trying to pretend like nothing has changed,” Aramis continues. “I hope it doesn’t come across that way.”

Athos shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re pretending. In fact, I know you’re genuine. That’s the thing.”

“You know I’d do anything she asked of me,” Aramis says, because it’s hopelessly true. Athos bows his head, acknowledging the truth of this. “And the same goes for you,” Aramis emphasizes. “I’d do anything you asked of me, too.”

Athos looks up, locking eyes with Aramis. His mouth is set in a straight line, and Aramis thinks at least it’s better than a frown.

“I’ve brought you something,” Athos says, then.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” Aramis comments. “Well, what is it? Is it something good?”

Athos rolls his eyes. “So impatient.”

Aramis pinches at Athos’ arm in response. Athos bats him away and roots around in his pocket for something. 

“I only remembered yesterday that I had this,” he says, holding something in one hand. Aramis leans in closer and sees that it’s a set of rosary beads. The beads are wooden, with a fine metal chain linking them together. It’s simple but well-made. “This set belonged to my father, the Comte de la Fère.” Aramis raises a pointed eyebrow, and Athos gives a nod, just as pointed, in response. “You probably have any number of rosary beads at your disposal.”

Aramis chuckles. “It doesn’t start immediately raining rosary beads at your ordination, you know.” 

Something like levity crosses Athos’ face. “Anyway, this might be useful to you.”

“Thank you, Athos,” Aramis says, as he accepts the necklace.

He emphasizes Athos’ name, and that does seem to brighten up Athos’ face. There is a light in his eyes now. Aramis thinks _Good. We will need that light tomorrow and in the days to come._

+

The Spanish banners approach in the distance and Treville signals that the French royal party should start moving. Louis, however, doesn’t see.

He’s at the front of the group, surveying the approaching Spanish entourage. “We should be on horseback,” he hisses to Anne, who is standing next to him. “Philip will dismount from his horse and we will look very small in comparison.”

“They’re traveling to meet us from farther away,” Anne explains. “It makes sense that they should arrive on horseback. We have only this small bit to walk. We’re supposed to meet the Spanish party halfway across the field.”

“How symbolic,” Louis quips.

“Yes,” Anne says. “I planned it that way.”

“Oh?” Louis turns to look at her. “Clever.”

She gives him a bemused smile like she isn’t sure if he’s being facetious or earnest. But then he holds out his hand to her and she takes it.

Aramis breathes a sigh of relief. Whatever his personal feelings about Louis and Anne might be, it is necessary for the King and Queen to appear united right now, especially considering the Queen’s ties to Spain.

“Treville thinks we should set off,” Anne says, noticing Treville’s attempts to get everyone moving.

Louis takes a look around at the assembled party. He seems nervous, smoothing down the gold sash he has pinned across his chest. He seems to get ahold of himself, sets his jaw, and gives a crisp nod. 

“Allez!” Treville calls, and everyone sets off.

Treville and Athos, both wearing armor, lead the party. The King and Queen follow, flanked by a group of young men bearing the royal standard and various other royal banners. Aramis and Constance follow this group, with Porthos and d’Artagnan forming the rear guard. There is a group of soldiers prowling around the perimeters of the French encampment, suited up and prepared to ride out and do battle if Treville gives the signal. 

Aramis is not wearing armor, a choice that had made Treville raise an eyebrow. 

“I can’t tell a priest what to do,” he had said gruffly, before moving on to check on the other three.

Louis had bestowed on him a royal blue sash embroidered with a gold fleur de lys pattern, instructing him to wear it for the occasion. So, today, he is outfitted in his vestments: a black robe, white tunic, and the generous royal gift. A different type of generous gift hangs around his neck underneath the embroidered finery. Aramis reaches underneath his tunic, closes his hand around Athos’ crucifix, and says a quick, silent prayer. 

He feels a gentle nudge at his side, rousing him from his prayer. “I like my chances,” Constance says, “with a priest at my side.”

“Constance, if anyone can handle themselves, it’s you. In fact, I seem to remember a certain slap or two to the face from you.”

“Well,” Constance grins. “You weren’t a priest then. And you deserved it.”

“What about me?” d’Artagnan calls from behind Constance. “I have your back! Quite literally.”

“Yes,” Constance acknowledges. “But you can’t get me in with God if things go south today, can you?”

“Unreasonable expectations,” d’Artagnan fake pouts.

Aramis looks over his shoulder and winks, which only draws an eyeroll from d’Artagnan. He’s smiling though, which is good. Aramis is glad that Porthos and d’Artagnan have each other back there. They’ll keep each other from becoming too anxious. Athos, however, is at the front. Aramis can tell from the tense set of his shoulders that he’s on high alert.

Nothing goes wrong for the time being, and the two royal parties meet in the center of the field with surprisingly little ceremony, considering everything. There is mostly a fuss with the horses as the Spanish royal party dismounts, and various standard bearers from both sides jockey for a good view of the two kings.

Louis and Philip appear more similar than different, both outfitted in splendid regalia and both sporting heavily groomed mustaches. However, Philip’s silence gives him an overly serious air, while Louis comes off as extremely haughty. He pushes his nose into the air, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the Spanish group.

Since Louis isn’t going to say anything, Anne takes her cue and rushes over to embrace her younger brother. It’s easy to see her as the oldest child, as she places her arm on Philip’s shoulder and greets him in rapid Spanish. She switches to French before Louis has time to protest.

“Since my husband does not speak Spanish, we will conduct this meeting in French,” she declares.

Philip heaves a sigh as though this is costing him a great deal, but then nods his acquiescence. “I have a royal page,” he announces, gesturing for someone to step forward. “He will record the official terms of this agreement—should there be one—in Latin.”

A thin, reedy teenaged boy steps forward. Louis raises an eyebrow as if smirking _this is your official page?_ And Aramis prays again that no fighting breaks out if this meeting goes south. Young people like this page and the standard bearers will inevitably be the first casualties. 

Anne gives a nod of acknowledgement to the page, and then turns to the assembled French party. “We have our royal priest with us today,” she says, locking eyes with Aramis and motioning for him to step forward. 

_Royal priest_. Aramis wants to laugh. It sounds ridiculous. He hopes his expression is as neutral as possible when he steps forward and bows to Philip.

Anne gives him an encouraging nod. “He will seal our contract today with a prayer,” she explains, “making it a binding agreement between our two countries and God.” She speaks as though the peace treaty is a foregone conclusion, willing it to be so.

Philip looks Aramis up and down but doesn’t say anything, and Aramis can’t help but feel that he’s failed a royal inspection. 

Louis leans forward now, finally ready to speak to Philip. “I want to address you as a brother, as family, because of my dear Queen.” He reaches a hand out for Anne and she takes it. “But your army is ravaging my countryside and killing my people. You must agree to stop this fighting and to keep your army from crossing the French border.”

“My brother,” Philip leans forward as well, a wicked smile unfolding across his face. “I think first we must agree on what exactly constitutes the French border.”

Louis throws his hands up into the air, incensed. 

Anne, remaining calm, motions for Treville to step in. An advisor from the Spanish side is also called forward, and they begin hashing it out.

What follows is a long morning, the harsh glare of the sun beating down on the group, as various advisors talk through the logistics of peace. Louis and Philip both pace around, occasionally cutting in with an angry remark. Anne stands at the center of everything, playing diplomat between the two sides. 

Aramis takes it all in and finds it difficult not to be cynical about a peace achieved like this. If an agreement is reached here, it’s an agreement that will inevitably be broken at some point. The only person here seriously committed to the idea of peace is Anne. But then, Aramis remembers, she has no choice. This war is a family argument, and it’s costing her personally. It’s maddening, and Aramis wonders why Louis and Philip can’t see this. Or maybe being king is too all encompassing, and they simply don’t care about the personal cost of war.

While all of this has been going on, Constance has placed herself behind Anne, ready with supplies (mainly water and wine) if needed. D’Artagnan keeps close to the ladies. Athos and Porthos patrol around the perimeter of the group while Treville is occupied speaking with the Spanish advisors. All of this has left Aramis standing on his own and, somehow, he has ended up standing behind Louis. He feels foolish and strangely vulnerable, standing in such close proximity to the King but not wearing his Musketeer uniform. 

There’s something else, too. Louis is ridiculous, everyone knows that. But what he says matters, especially here. And witnessing that kind of power up close is intoxicating. Aramis feels overcome with it. He clutches his Bible to remind himself of the real higher power.

“Aramis,” he startles out of his own thoughts as he notices that Anne is motioning to him. “I think it’s in your hands now,” she says with a small smile.

Aramis takes a step forward to stand level with Louis, and tries not to betray any nerves as he feels all eyes turn to him.

“So,” Anne begins to sum up. “We’re agreed to a provisional three month truce during which time a more lengthy peace treaty will be drafted. Then, in three months time, we will reconvene at a neutral site to formally sign it.”

“Yes,” Louis immediately agrees.

Philip doesn’t answer. Instead, he points to Aramis. “Your priest,” he sneers. “He is French.”

“Of course he’s French,” Louis snaps. “He’s our royal priest. What do you think, that we’d have one of those English heretics presiding over our court? How scandalous! No, he is a Frenchman!” Louis smacks Aramis on the back for emphasis.

Philip raises an eyebrow. “Yes, that would be a true scandal,” he says with a smirk.

A knot twists in Aramis’ stomach. He looks to Anne, but she looks just as dumbfounded by Philip’s behavior as he is. That makes him breathe a little easier. If Philips suspects or knows something about himself and Anne, it’s not because she confessed anything to him.

“You look rather young,” Philip says to him.

“Yes,” Aramis nods. “I’m fairly new. I’ve only been ordained for—” He notices Anne nodding at him out of the corner of his eye “—two years now,” he lies, praying that God will understand.

Louis gives him a sidelong glance. “Yes, he might be young, but he’s extremely devoted.”

This testimonial seems to satisfy Philip, who doesn’t press for further information. Aramis feels the strange sensation of wanting to hug Louis, but settles for giving him a small smile instead. He then looks to Anne, who gives him a nod of encouragement, and steps in between the two kings.

“I’ve brought something with me today,” Aramis begins, holding up his worn leather-bound Bible. “It’s not from the royal library, and it doesn’t look very impressive,” he acknowledges, as Louis looks like he’s expecting more, while Philip gives a blank stare. 

“This Bible was given to me upon my ordination by Père Antoine,” Aramis explains, “a priest who has been with l’Abbaye de Cluny for some forty years now. He’s not a man of politics, he would be utterly uninterested in this meeting today. But our King,” here Aramis indicates Louis, “mentioned devotion. Let us today, swear on this Bible, and think of Père Antoine and his forty years of service to a cause he believes in. Let us think of our devotion to our nations. Let us think of our devotion and our promises to each other.”

Now he steps closer to Anne, and he can see that her eyes are shining from emotion again. “Your Majesty,” he addresses her. “Will you please hold this?”

He hands the Bible to her and, for a moment, they’re holding it between themselves. Then Aramis steps back and motions to Louis and Philip. He instructs them to each place their right hand on the book. Louis, for once in his life, looks like he’s taking this seriously. Philip looks bored, but complies anyway.

Aramis holds his hands out in supplication. “Holy Father,” he begins a prayer. “We have gathered here today seeking peace between our two nations. We formally commit to a provisional peace agreement in your presence. During this time we ask you to please watch over France, and watch over Spain,” he makes sure to mention Spain for Philip’s benefit. “And we ask for your holy guidance as we seek lasting peace with one another.”

Then he launches into the Our Father in Latin, which everyone recites along with him.

“Go now in peace,” Aramis instructs the group, and it has never felt more apt.

Anne hands the Bible back to him. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s giving him her real smile, not her fake diplomatic smile. But there’s no time to say anything, as she’s hugging her brother and walking him back to his horse.

Treville is by Louis’ side in an instant. “Everything looks safe,” he confides to the King in a low voice. “But we’ll be alert as we take our leave.”

Constance follows Anne and then walks her back to the King’s side. Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan have swept the surrounding area and signal to Treville that it’s all clear.

Porthos sneaks over to give Aramis a congratulatory clap on the back.

“Very smooth,” d’Artagnan tells him, as he makes his way over to Anne and Constance.

Athos merely holds his gaze and gives one of his crisp nods. “I’ll go on ahead,” he says to Treville. “And inform the troops that it’s good news.”

And then it’s all over, as the party makes their way back to the French encampment. Aramis walks alone, clutching his Bible, and not yet sure how to process the eventful morning.

+

Treville immediately calls a meeting of the generals to discuss breaking up the encampment, while everyone else goes their separate ways to cool off from the hot August sun and decompress from the morning’s events.

Aramis knows he’ll be leaving soon, and that has to see her one more time. He heads over to the same little camouflage tent, which Anne has kept for herself, preferring to keep things simple. There’s no way to knock, but she is standing in the middle of the tent and seems to have been expecting him. Constance tactfully ducks out the other side of the tent to give them a few minutes of privacy.

“Congratulations,” he greets the Queen.

Anne shakes her head. Her perfect diplomat veneer has faded. He can see little wisps of her hair have slipped free of her tight updo and have started to curl in the heat. It’s awfully endearing. 

“Philip always was a brat, you know,” she confesses, with a laugh. “He’s not bad, but he always likes to get a bit of attention for himself. Not so different from my husband.”

“Louis did well,” Aramis assures her. “As did you, of course.”

“ _You_ did well,” she replies. “Thank you. And I’m sorry,” here Anne looks truly uncomfortable for the first time all day. “I’m sorry about the lies, about being the royal priest and being ordained for two years.”

Aramis pauses. “It was for a good cause, right?”

“I hope so.” Anne moves toward him now. “It doesn’t have to be a lie though,” she says, and Aramis feels a swooping in his stomach. “We’d love to welcome you as our priest at court. Louis would like having a priest he could rely on. And so would I.”

He looks at the ground. Aramis would never refuse her anything, which is why he has to say no right now. He can’t keep lying on her behalf, good cause or not.

“There is nothing I’d like more, which is why I have to turn you down,” he says, as gently as possible. “I made a promise to God. Let me at least earn the two years of experience I claimed to have had. Then perhaps you could consider me as a proper candidate.”

“I understand. Well, it’s an open-ended offer…” She trails off and looks at him with a nostalgic little smile. Then she drops her gaze and it falls on the Bible, still in Aramis’ grasp. “Was that a lie, too?” she asks. “Père Antoine? That was quite good.”

Aramis gives a little laugh. “No, Père Antoine is as real as this book, and about as old, too. He gave it to me saying I should have something personal on such an important day.”

“How thoughtful,” Anne says. “I’m glad that part wasn’t a lie. I know priests and Cardinals,” here she gives an eyebrow raise, “who lie about everything.”

“I think I must endeavor not to be that kind of priest. I think,” Aramis pauses and then nods to himself, “that is my work now.”

“The work will suit you,” Anne declares. She moves her hand toward the Bible, which Aramis is holding in front of him. Anne places her right hand on the book, letting it linger there for a moment before pulling away. “I truly wish you the best, Father Aramis.” 

Aramis feels his chest tighten. He appreciates her making the effort to use his new title and yet it sounds unbearably formal coming from her.

“And you, Your Majesty,” he addresses her, bowing.

He turns to leave as quickly as he can, not wanting to let his gaze rest on her for too long. It’s too painful. 

And so, Aramis leaves Anne alone in her tent, her formal dress wilting in the heat, her hair coming undone around her face. She’s a queen, and a powerful monarch in her own right. She proved that today. And she’s a person whom Aramis loves, but never in quite the same way again.

+

Aramis walks around camp, unseeing. He walks until he can’t anymore. He quite literally can’t move, because he bumps straight into someone else.

Normally Aramis would curse running into Louis right at this moment, but the King is as jovial and as oblivious as ever.

Louis gives him an odd clap on the shoulder, like he isn’t used to doing it. “Good work today, old man!” he cries. “Or,” he reconsiders, “perhaps I shouldn’t address a priest in such a casual way?”

“It’s quite alright, Sire,” Aramis assures him.

“Good work today, Father,” Louis says, testing the title out. He gives a high-pitched laugh. “That will take some getting used to.”

Aramis leans in. “Can I share a secret with you?”

“Please do.”

“It takes some getting used to on my part, too.”

Louis gives Aramis an uncharacteristically understanding smile, then pats him on the shoulder again, and saunters away.

“My dear!” Louis calls as he approaches Anne’s tent. “Constance, is she in? We must set off for Paris as soon as possible.”

Aramis watches Louis walk away, a small but genuine smile on his face. It’s strange but after all this time—after all the complications, the lies, and the guilt—it’s nice to be in this position, standing and smiling after Louis.

+

If Aramis thought saying goodbye to Anne was difficult, this is worse.

Porthos offers to help as Aramis packs up his few belongings in the security team’s tent. D’Artagnan crouches on the floor, watching, his lower lip sticking out in a sad pout, while Athos stands guard at the door.

Porthos tosses a tunic to Aramis. “Do you have to do your own laundry at the monastery?” he asks. “And take care of all your… priest things?”

Aramis chuckles. “Some of the novices help with laundry. And you know I have superior sewing skills,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “I do alright with my vestments. Though nothing so fine as this,” he remarks, folding Louis’ gift of the blue sash.

He packs away the king’s gift, knowing that he will never wear it at the monastery, where more simple tastes reign. Still, it’s nice to have a souvenir from such an eventful day. Everyone is silent for a few minutes while Aramis finishes fastening his satchel.

“It’s never going to be the same, is it?” D’Artagnan bursts out from his spot on the floor.

Aramis and Porthos turn to look at him. 

“What do you mean?” Athos asks, his tone sounding oddly closed-off.

D’Artagnan points at Aramis. “He’s always leaving!” he cries.

Aramis can’t help giving a gentle laugh. “You’re right, I suppose I am. But I’ll be assigned a parish of my own soon, hopefully closer to Paris so I can visit more often.”

“I should hope it’s closer to Paris!” Porthos cries. “The Loire, honestly…” Porthos shakes his head to show just what he thinks of the Loire region, but he’s simultaneously grinning.

“Visiting isn’t the same,” d’Artagnan grumps, standing up now. “And Treville practically lives at the palace now with his new duties. Athos and Porthos are both busier than ever.” D’Artagnan’s eyes are wide, making him look even younger than he is. “It’s just never going to be all of us together at the Garrison again, is it?”

Aramis exchanges a glance with Athos and Porthos, then steps closer to d’Artagnan. 

“Hey,” he says, taking him by the shoulder. “What about you? You’re married now, which means you and Constance have each other.” D’Artagnan nods. “So, no, things won’t ever be exactly the same again. But that’s because you have new and exciting things going on for yourself.”

“It’s okay to miss the old days,” Porthos says.

“As long as you don’t lose yourself thinking about the past,” Athos chimes in.

Aramis looks between Athos and Porthos again. The three of them still make a pretty good team when needed.

“And I might have to say goodbye more often than any of us would like,” Aramis says, giving d’Artagnan’s shoulder a squeeze. “But that just means that I’ll be back more often.”

D’Artagnan holds his gaze and finally breaks into a grin. “You’re always so cheesy.”

Porthos laughs. “Give him a break, he needs practice for giving out his priestly advice.”

Then it’s hugs all around. D’Artagnan first, earnest and a little teary-eyed. Porthos next, giving a merry bear hug as usual, but his eyes are serious. Then Aramis is standing in front of Athos, and he’s not sure if he should reach out first. That’s when Athos finally opens up, embracing Aramis and whispering, “I know you’ll do well.”

“I hope so,” Aramis says, breaking apart enough to grasp the crucifix around his neck. “I’ll have help from some old friends.”

Athos nods and gives one of his almost smiles.

“Au revoir,” Aramis tells them, and he means it in the true sense of the phrase. He will see them again.

Aramis walks his horse out of the encampment and thinks about how goodbyes don’t always have to represent a final farewell. He realizes that it’s what Anne had meant during their conversation earlier. Sometimes, with good old friends, a goodbye is an open-ended offer to return once both sides have taken time to learn about the world and about themselves. Then it’s hello, as both sides are ready to embrace one another again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
